


take my path

by hissingmiseries



Category: Black Mirror (TV), Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (2018)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Basically Two Stoner Kids Falling In Love Over a Video Game, Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Sharing a Bed, There's No Fucking Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 11:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17600873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hissingmiseries/pseuds/hissingmiseries
Summary: "Hey," Stefan says. He's careful to keep it casual, careful not to look at Colin, to keep his eyes on the screen. "I think the drugs are getting to me."Colin blinks. "How so?""I saw you die yesterday." Rockford shifts a boulder, watching it tumble down the abyss. "You jumped off the balcony."





	take my path

**Author's Note:**

> i wasted at least four hours on this stupid movie looking for the 'romance colin' option but instead i got him yeeting himself to death so i can conclude that netflix is homophobic af
> 
> also i love them
> 
> contains: heavy recreational drug usage w/ side effects, instance of overdose; original char for plot purposes

 

 

-

 

It gets pretty damn cold in England when the winter months roll around. Cold enough to see frost on the lawns, cold enough for your breath to fog and your fingers to get red and your teeth hammer together in your skull. 

Winter is Stefan's least favourite time. 

Everything is grey, grey and dull and boring.

Colin certainly isn't, but he isn't around in winter. He goes down south when the winter comes.

 

The first time Stefan got all drugged up with Colin Ritman, they talked about alternate realities and PacMan and how nothing is really real. Colin tipped his head back, eyes soft with marijuana; Stefan couldn't help staring at him, at _Colin Ritman_ with his spiky hair and freckled nose and his smirk that Stefan had dreamt about the night before.

Colin said, "My mum used to have to drag me inside when it got this cold. I was that kid who was always out throwing snowballs and shit. I got frostbite on my hands one year."

Stefan tucked his knees under his chin and restarted the game. "Yeah," he lied. "Yeah, happened to me, too."

 

When they started working on Bandersnatch together—a tough decision for Stefan, letting go of his baby like that—they'd have days in Colin's apartment, high on weed or LSD or whatever they could find, playing Boulder Dash through a goldfish bowl of hallucinations. Colin isn't very good, for a game designer. He dies a lot.

"Hey," Stefan says. He's careful to keep it casual, careful not to look at Colin, to keep his eyes on the screen. "I think the drugs are getting to me."

Colin blinks. "How so?"

"I saw you die yesterday." Rockford shifts a boulder, watching it tumble down the abyss. "You jumped off the balcony."

"The balcony?" Colin echoes. His lips are wrapped around a cigarette. "Shit. Long way down."

"You were so calm about it. Dead matter-of-fact."

"What, I just—" It's so dark in the room, Stefan can only really make out Colin's chin in the red light; the hairpin curve of his lips, the attempt at stubble. "Just Froggered myself off?"

Stefan suddenly feels very, very sick. Everything shifts a little to the left, large enough to be noticable but small enough to doubt himself, to think its just the drugs. A lot of things are  _just the drugs_ nowdays; sometimes, Stefan thinks Colin is  _just the drugs_. He's too ridiculous to be real.

"Yeah," he says, quietly. "No. I can't remember."

 

Stefan fucking loves summer. For a depressed kid who wears a lot of black and sometimes forgets to talk to people, summer seems to bring out a lighter side of him. He goes outside and sits in the grass and writes, writes until his pens are out of ink and his middle finger has a pressure lump. He smokes weed and listens to Frankie Goes to Hollywood and breathes in the air. Breathes in next door's barbeque, the smell of Colin's weed on his shirt. 

Colin hates summer. It makes all of his freckles connect and he burns easily.

Stefan understands.

Stefan was very, very happy to see Colin the summer after the game was first beta-ed. It had a good reception but needed work, which was fine for Stefan because it meant he could spend more hours, more evenings in Colin's apartment, on his bed, in his smoke cloud. Sipping a beer and talking about his fever dreams.

He and Colin get along better in summer, too. Stefan isn't thinking of his mum and Colin doesn't go into work most days. It's nice, even if Colin is not quite real, even if Stefan sometimes thinks he made him up.

 

-

 

They're in the apartment one really hot day, working on ending number four. 

Stefan breaths out, lets summer wrap around him. It's baking hot, all of it; even with the windows open and the fan on, he wants to press himself into a sheet of ice and stay there until he's stopped sweating. There are sun rays shining down on the bed, on Colin's hair, catching on his eyelashes.

"You fucking stink of beer," Colin says, with a smile. The game menu in on the screen and they are lying back on the makeshift mattress, giggling with drunkenness. Stefan's heart is racing just a little. 

Stefan elbows him in the side. "You fucking stink of weed."

Colin tips his face into the curve of Stefan's throat, sighing. "You're such a dick," he whispers, then he falls asleep.

 

When he wakes up, the sun has gone. The light shining in is now streetlamp-orange and Stefan's arm has gone numb from the body lying on it. Not that he's complaining. He'd never complain about this; he has spent weeks wanting this, never been brave enough to make a move. Colin's eyes flicker up to him, quick and unsure, like fish darting around in a creek: close enough to touch, then gone again.

He grumbles, rubs his eyes. "How long have I been out?"

"Couple hours," Stefan says.

Glasses tumble onto the mattress. Thick rims, grandma-style.  

"And you didn't think to work on the game?" Bandersnatch is coming along nicely. Any time an error pops up, Colin leaps onto it as if it were prey; picks it apart like it's a bomb, like cutting the wrong wire will destroy it all. Stefan admires it so much. 

"Um," Stefan swallows, sitting up. 

"Kidding," Colin smirks. "To be honest, if Pax tells me to worship him one more time I'm probably gonna top myself." 

The air loosens. Stefan smiles too: a little, gentle thing. "Take a different path, then."

"Might just head on up to that balcony."

"Please don't."

"Nah?" He rolls onto his side, reaches for a bottle.

Stefan elbows him again, suddenly an irritant toddler. Colin always does this to him—makes him stupid, playful. Makes him smile so wide his face starts to hurt. "Shut up. You're the type of idiot who'd actually do it."

"Depends what I'm on. Speaking of which—" There's a half-smoked blunt trapped under the duvet, and Colin finds it, sticks it into his mouth. Stefan grabs his lighter instinctively and flicks it; the flame sparks, sudden and bright. "Ta very much." 

White smoke pours out as Colin breathes. The room smells like pizza and unwashed clothes and purple cannabis.

"We've smoked the whole batch," Stefan says. "Gonna have to get some more."

"You're smoking me out of house and home," Colin says (which is ironic—considering Colin got him into the stuff in the first place). "Well—not sure I can call this shithole a home, but you get the gist."

 

Stefan frowns, turns on his side. "Where's your real home?"

They don't have moments like this very often. Quiet, genuine. The minute or two during the cutscene where you can relax and take a deep breath.

Colin is peering at him, squinting a little with myopia. Sleeping has flattened his hair over his forehead. "What counts as real?"

Stefan shrugs. "Where you were born, I guess. Or like—where you grew up."

"Born and bred in London," he replies, casual. "Mum worked three jobs and dad did fuck all. Typical situation." He lets out a stream of smoke, like a kettle releasing steam.

"No shit," Stefan says. He thinks of his own dad: nothing special. He wears glasses like Colin's and button-down shirts and eats Sugar Puffs for breakfast. 

"Moved out as soon as I left school, bought a console and the rest, I guess, is history."

"That's a pretty good life," Stefan muses. He takes the blunt from Colin's fingers, ignores the twitch when they touch. "The last part, even. You found your calling."

Colin gives him an unimpressed look. "Don't tell me you believe in all that stuff," he says.

Stefan blinks. "What?"

"Calling and shit," he says. "Like everything's fucking—destiny or whatever."

"That's not what you say when you get high." There was a day when they dropped acid and Colin spent hours babbling about Pacman's different realities and how you can time travel through mirrors, which Stefan regrettably attempted and ended up cutting his hand open. 

"I say a lot of shit when I get high."

"You get high a fucking lot."

Colin laughs. More like cackles, really—mischeivous and deadly. Stefan nearly melts right there onto the bedsheets. "How else do you think I get through working for Thakur? Guy thinks I can magic code up out of thin air. In time for Christmas. Who gives a shit about Christmas? It'll sell in fucking July if it's any good."

"And you're—y'know— _Colin Ritman,_ " Stefan adds, unhelpfully. 

"I hate when people do that."

"Do what?"

"Italicize my name," Colin says, pointedly.

 

 -

 

Stefan stays the night. It doesn't mean anything, he's done it before. The bed is comfy and the sheets plush and Colin's breath tickles his face, warm and delightful. He looks younger when he sleeps; his forehead smooths out and he isn't frowning or swearing at the game controller or telling Stefan off for smoking all the weed. It's adorable. Not that Stefan's looking.

Not that Stefan's dreamt about him before.

Enough times it could be real.

Maybe it's just the drugs. 

_Yeah_ , Stefan decides just before he nods off, an arm draped over Colin's waist, their bodies close but not quite touching.  _Just the drugs_.

 

-

 

Colin makes breakfast. Just eggs and toast and coffee, but like, it's nice. It's nice because Colin is nice; and because having something other than Frosties is also nice. 

 

Colin says, "You know," with a piece of toast between his teeth. His hair is unstyled and his glasses long discarded, allowing Stefan to see the true colour of his eyes. Blue, like the sky. Like blueberry Kool-Aid. "I think Bandersnatch might be the first thing I've worked on for a while that I've actually given a shit about."

"Oh," Stefan says, surprised. "What about Nohzdyve?"

Colin shrugs, slides a spatula of eggs onto Stefan's plate. "'s alright. Not winning anything anytime soon."

"It's gonna be great," Stefan says. "All the demos look great."

The kettle boils, sloshing in the corner. "They can look as  _great_ as they like, doesn't mean anyone will play it. Or like it." There's a tone of apathy to his voice, like Tuckersoft isn't hinging on Nohzdyve's success. On Colin's success. He shrugs it off like it's an overdue homework assignment, something he can catch up on later in the week.

"What's so special about Bandersnatch, then?"

Colin smiles. "Well." He stands up and Stefan feels every atom of his body turns towards him; an instinctive reaction. He wonders when he started doing that. "It's special because it has your genius little noggin behind it." His hand extends and ruffles Stefan's hair. Stefan swears he feels electricity spark, spread down his skull.

"It's hardly me," he says, modest. "I mean—"

"No no, don't even try," Colin interrupts. "I don't have the patience to put all that shit together. All the endings and paths. You've got stamina, mate."

Stefan shrugs. "I'm just following the book."

Colin's smoking: the kitchen smells like coffee and tobacco. "Yeah, the book. Should probably getting round to actually reading that."

"You still haven't read it?" Stefan laughs.

Colin shakes his head, yellowed fingers to his lips. Stefan's eyes drop over his knuckles, follow the faint pink halo around the forefinger from a misplaced stub. "Just been following what you say. It's your baby, after all."

"Well, it's ours now."

"Our baby," Colin smirks. "A few lines of code."

"It's more than that now, and you know it," Stefan says, reaching for a slice of buttered toast. "You'll be quids in by Christmas."

"And you'll be famous." There's a strange look in Colin's eyes; one of pride, and morning haziness and softness at the edges. "Your name will be plastered across all the newspapers in Britain. Someone'll pick up The Sun and Bandersnatch will have five stars and Tuckersoft will be saved from bankruptcy." 

Stefan peers at him and looks down. He thinks he might be blushing. "Yeah yeah. Whatever you say."

 

-

 

The first time Colin and Stefan slept together was an accident. Stefan was drunk and Colin was high and smelt like coffee and Stefan curled around him like a cat, arms long and hooked.

Colin kissed his forehead and his mouth and Stefan remembers thinking that it was really, really nice. Colin felt warm and soft and like home, and he could hold on really tight and he wouldn't break apart like dad, or his therapist, or the picture of his mum in its smashed frame.

They kissed for the first time at three a.m. exactly. Colin got Stefan off at three-forty.

Somehow it felt like more when Stefan woke up the morning after, and Colin was still there.

 

-

 

"Hey," Colin says, catching Stefan by the back of his shitty little hand-me-down jumper. Well, he says hand-me-down: one of his dad's shrank in the wash and Stefan adopted it. Colin said it looked like the puke-stained carpet in his hall. "You out tonight?"

"Um—" Stefan stutters. Homework, do the dishes. "I need to work on the dungeon ending."

"That's not an answer," Colin says.

Stefan shrugs. "Do you want to go out?" he asks.

Colin smiles and says, "Fine, since you asked so nicely." His mouth does that horribly attractive thing and his eyes sparkle and Stefan's falling falling _falling_ into a void which opens up right there, under his feet in a shitty hallway.

 

When Stefan gets home—he first gets a lot of weird looks on the train, probably because he smells like weed and beer and last night's mistakes—his Dad is in the kitchen, reading a paper. There are three frown lines carved into his forehead and his glasses have steamed up from the teacup in his hand. 

"You know, Stef," he says, cool as a cucumber when he hears the latch go. Stefan scowls; those fucking hinges. He needs to oil them. "If you're gonna be a dirty stop-out, the least you can do is call me so I know you aren't in a gutter somewhere."

"Sorry," Stefan calls through. "Lost track of time."

His dad raises an eyebrow. "This isn't like you."

"It's just the game, dad," he says, running a hand through his hair and grimacing when he touches ash. Colin must have tapped it there, cackling silently to himself. Git. "We're on a deadline."

Dad says, "Yeah, well. Make sure you eat something. And wash your clothes, I can smell you from here."

 

Stefan runs upstairs and dives into bed, pulls the sheets over his head and breathes. The fabric is stiff but Colin sat here just a few nights ago and he's still there, with product in his hair and a shit-eating grin.

 

-

 

There are times when the staff of Tuckersoft become convinced that their boss isn't real. This is one of those times: Thakur with his feet slung up on the desk, slurping coffee between inhales on a bong. It's cheap and plastic, the flame of his Zippo has charred the bowl. He's funny when he's like this: not so tightly-wound.

They're sat in his office, Thakur and Stefan. The place smells like marijuana and Chinese takeaway.

"You know," Thakur says, eyes red. "Ritman is in love with you."

Stefan blinks. He probably misheard. "He loves his games more than anything, Thak."

"Could have fooled me." Someone in the board room swears loudly, followed by a crash.

"Where even is he?" Stefan frowns; he'd come in and saw Colin's desk empty, his swivel-chair flung carelessly to the side and a haphazard  _be back in five_ scribbled on the back of a receipt. This was at twelve. A quick glance at the clock shows the hands threateningly approaching three. 

Thakur coughs, places the bong aside. "Never mind him." He leans forward, a fat finger pointing straight at Stefan's chest, prodding into him. "The fuck is the game I was promised this time three months ago?"

"We're working on it," Stefan says. "It's hard, Thak. Every time we finish one path, a new one opens—"

"You're making a video game, Stefan, not transcribing War and Peace."

"It's not that—"

"It  _is_ that simple," Thakur snaps. Well, as snappy as someone walking on clouds can be. "You forget who's paying for you two and your  _activities_ , whatever they are. Getting stoned and— don't look at me like that."

Stefan sighs. "We'll have it done by—March?"

There's a pause before Thakur rolls his eyes and says, "Fine, seeing as you missed the Christmas rush. But don't think I won't boot both you and your boyfriend off this project if you keep dicking around."

The chair squeaks as he gets up to leave. "He's not my boyfriend."

(Stefan doesn't deserve him. Wouldn't deserve him. He's too rocky and unstable and—

Colin is a good thing. Colin is a very good thing.

Stefan—

—is not that.

He's not that at all.)

"You never said," Stefan says, with a thought. "Where Colin is."

Thakur's eyes narrow as if trying to understand an artwork; he says, "He went out," cautiously. He's smarter than he looks, Stefan realises. 

"Out?"

"Out," nods Thakur. The whites of his eyes shine with red webbing. "I'll tell him you were asking."

 

Stefan calls on his brick phone and a very drunk Colin picks up. It's five o'clock in the afternoon, the sun is barely down.

"Are you okay?" Stefan asks; he sounds worried, and very sober. 

"I'm fine," Colin says. By contrast he is not at all sober but he tries to steady his voice as if Stefan doesn't know Colin inside and out, knows how he sounds when he's trying to not sound hungover in front of Thakur on a Monday morning, untucked shirt and untied shoes. "Did Thakur tell you where I was?"

"Um, no." Stefan feels very nervous all of a sudden—his palms start sweating ever so slightly.

"Did you ask him?"

Stefan swallows. "Yes."

"Aw," Even through the crackly reception, he can hear the mocking in Colin's voice. Not malicious, but playful. "You were worried about me?"

"Shut up," Stefan says. "Where were you, then?"

"In a different timeline," Colin says.

"Well," Stefan sighs. "Are we still going out tonight? At least in this timeline?"

The smirk on Colin's face is audible down the line. "That's the spirit, kid. Be at mine for six. Oh, and bring some fags, will you?"

 

-

 

The sky is orange when they go down to the docks; October brings nice sundowns, not too early, not too late. It's not quite the Mediterranean sea but maybe the Thames will be a nice replacement for a while. They're mostly sober; Stefan freshly intoxicated, Colin not yet sobered up from earlier. It could be romantic or some shit, except Stefan has brought a flask of coffee and he's pouring it into their empty McDonalds cups. 

Colin's eyes look nice in this light. Soft and liquidy.

 

"Thakur treats us like shit," says Colin, dangling his feet off the side of the port. There's definitely a very good chance of either of them slipping and falling straight into the water below, and contracting god knows what diseases from it. Water shouldn't be that colour, Stefan thinks, grimacing at the brown shit underneath his legs. "He doesn't realise we're going to make him a millionaire by summer—or that it's going to take us that long."

"He thinks we're screwing around," Stefan says. "Wasting time."

Colin smirks. "We are."

"No we're not," frowns Stefan. "I finished the balcony ending today."

"Yeah, 'cause you were alone," Colin says. "I wasn't there to distract you, was I?"

There's a knowing tone to his voice; his tongue curls around the word  _distract_ and Stefan swears he feels ice run up and down his spine. It's not fair. Colin shouldn't be able to do this to him with one word.

"Fair enough," Stefan says.

"Very fair," Colin nods. "In fact—I think you should finish the game off by yourself."

Stefan fucking laughs; it's that moment in a movie where a character, shocked by bad news, laughs into the stony faces of those who delivered it. It's just like that now. Stefan's shoulders heaving, quieting when he sees the look on Colin's face. "You're not serious."

"Deadly," Colin says.

"What do you mean?"

Colin tips his head back, letting a thin stream of smoke from between his lips. "Thakur's taken me off the game. Put me back on Nohzdyve."

It feels like a punch to the fucking gut. "I don't understand."

"We're wasting too much time," Colin says. His eyes are fixed on the orange horizon, warm behind thick glasses. The cigarette burns down to a stub between his fingers. "He's pissed we didn't get Bandersnatch out for Christmas."

"I just spoke to him today," Stefan argues. "He gave us 'till March."

Colin turns and peers at Stefan, almost confused at his innocence. "He was also high as a kite when he said it. We all do things we don't mean when we're fucked."

"But—" Stefan begins. He knows he sounds like a petulant kid but he's not entirely sure this is happening. It shouldn't feel like this. It's just a game.

"You'll be fine, Stef," Colin sighs. "You started it on your own, anyway."

"But it's not _fair_."

"I know," Colin says. He takes a breath, visibly rallies. "I'll try and talk to him."

"Really?" Stefan sits up fast. He's all wide, hopeful eyes. God, rookies, Colin thinks.

"Probably not," Colin says. "But hey, think of how well we did so far."

Stefan deflates right there on the docks, shrinking to half his size. It's not just the game. They both know that. Or at least, Stefan hopes they do; the one thing he's certain of is that the next time he sees Thakur, he's going to rip that stupid beard off his stupid fucking face.

 

-

 

Colin calls Thakur, and doesn't care if he loses his job because of it. "You're a piece of shit for doing this."

"I know," Thakur says. Colin presses his lips together; he can practically see his boss in the office with his feet up, twiddling the phone cord between his fingers. 

"Do you?" Colin asks. He's so fucking angry. His veins are hot.

Thakur shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"Stefan's freaking out," Colin says, through gritted teeth. "You can do worse than talk to him right now."

 

Stefan won't pick up any of Thakur's calls. He refuses; it's not the smartest thing to do but he's so furious that he doesn't care. He wants to go back; he's made a wrong choice somewhere and picked a wrong path, and at some point he'll wake up to his alarm and realise this was all a bad dream.

It's _Colin_. Colin who makes Stefan feel good and human even when he doesn't mean to. His stupid smile, his stupid laugh; everything about it.

Stefan was so fucking happy. So happy.

It's not supposed to feel like the end of the world, but it does.

Stefan was doing better, you know.

He was doing okay.

 

"What's there to talk about?" Thakur says, infuriatingly. "I was promised a finished game by Christmas and I still haven't got it. That's worker incompetence."

"Like you even know what that means," Colin snaps.

Thakur says, "He's a kid in his basement. You're my gold star. I need you working on what's going to make us money."

Colin's tongue feels huge in his mouth. "He's more than that and you know it," he says, quietly. The line goes silent for a few seconds, save the buzzing of the machine, before Thakur clears his throat and straightens up in his chair.

"It's just business, Col," he says. "Just business." Then, "can I say the same for you?"

 

-

 

Colin makes dinner for Stefan the day after, as a way to say sorry. Not that it's a good one—Stefan's still pissed and Colin can't cook for shit. Still, pasta isn't that difficult to knock up. He puts in extra spice, the way Stefan likes it; does it on autopilot, which is dumb. It shows many times they've run through this: losing track of time, forgetting to eat and making dinner in less than five minutes. 

He laughs when he burns it, because of course he fucking does—only he would manage to overcook fucking pasta shapes. Of _course_. His laugh is loud and harsh and makes Stefan poke his head around the doorframe, eyes wide like a doe. "Colin?"

"It's fine," Colin says. The sauce turns black in the pan.

The smoke detector goes off, shrill and painful. They both stumble around looking to turn it off or wave a dish towel underneath it, and it takes some time until Stefan has Colin up on a chair (Colin's taller, you see), poking at the device with the handle of a wooden spoon. Eventually it stops and Colin looks down, meets Stefan's eyes. 

Stefan feels sad, all of a sudden. He wants to kiss him. He wants to go up on his tiptoes and feel Colin's hand on his neck and kiss him until Thakur calls back and changes his mind.

Instead he says, "Please don't set the house on fire," and laughs as his eyes water from the smoke.

 

They eat dinner together, once Colin has managed to salvage it. Stefan keeps his feet under the table and Colin keeps his hands to his sides and they don't talk about the game, or Tuckersoft or Thakur or anything, really. It's hard, because Colin wants to put a plaster over Stefan's scratched-up heart and make it better, and Stefan still has steam coming out of his ears, so the only middle ground is silence. It's okay, though. It's okay.

 

-

 

Stefan doesn't go into the office the next day. He stays at home, in his room and opens Bandersnatch. 

His dad pokes his head around the door, brow pinched. "You alright, kid?" 

"Huh?" Stefan starts; the clock says 14:56 and suddenly Stefan realises he's just been sat here for two hours, staring at the screen. The Thief of Destiny stares back at him, teeth bared.

Dad knows when something isn't right—he knows when Stefan is getting bad again. "Is this because of work?"

"Work's fine, dad," Stefan says. "I'm just trying to figure this ending out."

Dad says, "Okay," then, "Did you take your meds this morning, Stef?"

"Yes," Stefan lies. He'd tossed them down the sink, watched them topple down the drain with a strange satisfaction. He's not quite sure what made him do it; he was just brushing his teeth when he got a crashing, overwhelming urge to do it, so he did.

"Okay," Dad says, again, and leaves.

 

The office is fucking dead when Colin walks in, wearing an old red shirt and his hair up in its usual spikes. He used to wear it a bit flatter because Stefan said he liked it but this morning, there was no Stefan in his bed to remind him, so he reached for the hair gel like how he always used to.

He avoids Thakur like the plague and sits at his desk. Nozhdyve is on the desktop, calling to be worked on. Thakur wasn't wrong, to be honest—he has been neglecting the project that was supposed to be the Next Big Thing.

"Ah, he lives," Johnnie says as he walks past, coffee in his hand. "We all thought you'd finally packed it in."

Colin says, "Could still happen yet." 

"As if," smirks the young assistant. "You love it too much."

"Hmm," Colin says. "Is the boss in today?"

"Aye," Johnnie says. "He wants to see you."

"I don't give a shit what he wants." Colin lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, tilting his head back, eyes closed. Maybe if he thinks hard enough he can wish himself into another timeline. Maybe if he indeed jumps off that balcony he could go back to the day when Stefan walked in, all long limbs and uncombed hair, looking at him like he'd met a messiah. 

"You're probably the only person who can get away with that attitude," Johnnie says. His accent is American and grates Colin's ears.

"Nah," Colin sighs. "Not anymore."

 

-

 

That night, Colin takes Stefan out for drinks with the office lot. Thakur isn't invited, obviously; nobody tells him about it and he doesn't catch on. The employees are pretty good at hiding shit from their boss. Stefan blinks like it's an alien experience, but everyone is chill, and they apologise to him for Thakur's dickheadedness and Colin tries his best to be Just Colin but his eyes are sad. Stefan can't shake the prickle from the back of his neck—old Colin, new Colin, sad Colin—but he downs a couple shots and that seems to help.

They find a quiet corner. Colin stretches his arm across the back of Stefan's chair; he's warm, nice and warm, and really close. Stefan feels like if he turned, ever so slightly, Colin would wrap his arms around him and they'd stay like that until sunrise.

"You're great, you know," Stefan says, quietly. 

"I know," Colin says. The light hits his eyes, the tops of his cheekbones. He looks nice without his glasses on; Stefan only really got to see him like this in early mornings, hungover and undressed and bleary-eyed.

The others are at the dartboard, laughing, throwing darts and not caring whether they hit the board or not. Everyone looks happy—until the landlord tells them to stop fucking his wall up or he'll kick them out.

Stefan goes up to get another round and Johnnie tosses a look at Colin from across the table, just one eyebrow, arched to the skies. 

"You're okay?" Johnnie asks. "You and Stef? I know—I know you two are close."

Colin says, "I'm fine. He'll be okay."

"Yeah," Johnnie says, and they both look at the teenager at the bar who looks so small and lost, trying to signal the bartender's attention with a crumpled fiver. 

 

They get really drunk.

Stefan sees Colin when he goes out for a smoke. That spiky blonde head and knuckled hand, buying pills from a guy in a black coat.

Stefan thought he was doing okay but it turns out he really, really isn't.

 

"Right, come on, lads," Johnnie slurs, shrugging on his jacket. It's one in the morning and the bar is closing. "Anyone fancy a nightcap?"

Stefan looks at his watch and thinks of his dad staying up waiting, in his ratty little dressing gown, watching television with his eyes flicking up at the clock. One in the morning. Nah, he'll be asleep by now.

"I'm in," Stefan nods, so Colin nods too.

Johnnie looks between them; his mouth becomes a straight line. "Alright, then."

 

-

 

Johnnie's flat is really nice. It's right in the city centre and they have to drunkenly stumble up six flights of stairs to get there, but he has heating and a lot of expensive whisky so they're pretty comfortable.

Colin gets up to take a piss, and checks on Stefan in the spare room. He's in a little ball, pillow pushed down over his head, hands tangled in the blanket. He sort of wants to smooth the covers down, untangle the kid from where he's twisted himself up in his sleep, but he doesn't.

The light floods in, bright and yellow. Stefan blinks and looks up at Colin. He looks like an owl in the shadows.

Colin stands there for a minute, just looking, before Stefan sits up. "Colin?"

"Hey," Colin says. He walks in, shuts the door behind him. The wooden flooring is cold on his bare feet, hard like the moonlight filtering through the blinds. 

"I tried adding to the game yesterday," Stefan says, quietly. He's still stinking drunk. "I didn't get anywhere. I just, stared at it for hours."

"You're in the hole?" Colin says.

"In the hole," Stefan nods. He rubs his eyes with balled fists. "Have been for a while."

Colin sits down next to him, perched on the bed. It's easier if he doesn't say anything, probably.

"I just want you to know," Stefan continues. "I'm not normally like this." His hair is in little tufts, ruffled with restlessness. "All—you know."

Colin says, "I know." He doesn't know what Stefan is like off his meds but he has a feeling it's something like this: lost, worried. Looking at everyone like they're about to tell him to go, like they already have. 

Stefan has wide, hopeful eyes right now. "We're good, then?"

"We always were," Colin says, with a tiny smile. It's small and careful; he's trying to be more careful. He doesn't want to break him. He's trying.

 

Colin shuts the door behind him and pads down the hall, a hand on the wall for stability. He's still pretty drunk so he just kind of finds a bed and topples into it. The pillow smells familiar. Almost like—

Oh.

"Morning, Johnnie," he moans, into the pillow.

"Colin," Johnnie says back, rolling over. He's in last night's clothes, having clearly passed out here some hours ago. "How's the kid?"

"Depressed," Colin sighs; he looks up at the ceiling, counting the spots of damp creeping in from the flat above.

Johnnie lifts his head to plump his pillow and collapses back with a thud. "He misses you."

Colin runs a hand through his hair, scratches his scalp. "I know."

"Keep an eye on him, mate," Johnnie manages before he falls asleep right there, on the mattress. "He looks like he's about to crumble."

 

-

 

Stefan goes out without Colin, some nights.

Colin tries not to worry. Colin has other shit to worry about.

 

"He's not talking to me," Colin says, turning around on his swivel chair. The office is really busy today with journalists and press, since one of the departments released a game that's apparently flying off the shelves. Thakur has spent the entire day talking to big, noisy video cameras whilst Colin has sat at his desk, trying to avoid interviews. Sometimes he hates being so recognisable. "I usually can't get him to shut up."

"Maybe he needs his space," Johnnie says, eating a chocolate bar. 

"He'd go mad in his own space," Colin sighs. The computer screen is stuck on the menu of Nohzdyve. It's nearly finished, just needs the finishing touches.

Thakur emerges from his hideaway, with his stupid hair in a stupid ponytail on his stupid head. "Colin, Johnnie, come on. The deadline for that's tomorrow—I need it  _done_." He makes an "I'm-watching-you" gesture at Colin before disappearing in front of another reporter's camera.

Colin sticks two fingers up at him.

Johnnie chuckles and says, "Stefan will be fine. Try and get him back in the office, fuck what Thakur says. You need him on this as much as he needs you."

 

-

 

Stefan is not fine.

Stefan is absolutely not fine.

 

How does Colin figure this out? It's when he puts on his jacket, his denim one with the deep pockets and sewn-on patches. The one he wore the other night when he bought those pills.

His hands dive into the pockets for his keys when he feels it. Or rather, realises it.

The pills aren't there.

 

Colin isn't freaking out, not a—

Colin is freaking out.

Colin isn't fine, either.

 

-

 

"Stefan? For fuck's sake, answer the fucking  _phone_." 

 

-

 

"Colin?"

It's eleven o'clock at night and Stefan is drunk. Stefan is  _so_ drunk. His dad's out romancing a new woman so he has the flat to himself and fuck, why not drink the entire alcohol cabinet? But now he's drunk on his bathroom floor with his head in a toilet bowl and it isn't a good look.

Stefan is  _so fucking drunk_ and there's really only one person he wants to talk to in the whole of the world.

"Stefan, for god's sake, why did you take your phone off the hook? I've been trying to ring you all day."

"Oh," Stefan says.

"Oh?" Colin parrots, fuming.

There's a violent splashing sound from the end of the line which makes Colin go quite pale. He says, "Jesus, Stef, are you okay?"

"I know I said—" Stefan begins, but he's slurring so much. None of his words make sense. Maybe it's not just the drink, maybe it's that other thing. What other thing? He can't remember. It was definitely something. "But I—what did I— Colin?"

"Jesus," Colin repeats. He glances at himself in the mirror—buttoned-up shirt, jeans, socially acceptable—before grabbing his keys and hurling himself out of the apartment, down the stairs, two at a time. The phone in his head crackles at the shitty reception in the hallways and Colin prays the call doesn't die because he isn't sure Stefan will be able to pick up again if it does. "How drunk  _are_ you?"

"I don't know what I took," Stefan says, slowly. "I just found them, and took them. I don't think they were what I thought they were."

His car unlocks. Colin throws himself into the front seat, starts the ignition. His heart is beating so fast and hard it's almost humming. "Do you remember anything?"

"No," Stefan says. "Um, I remember- I deleted the game. I broke the computer."

_The fucking game_ , Colin seethes, putting the phone down next to the gearbox as he reverses out of the carpark, mentally trying to map out the fastest route around London. "Good. I never want to see that fucking game again."

Stefan laughs, startled, then hiccups. "I wish we never made it," he says. "It ruined everything."

"Tell me about it," Colin says.

"It ruined us."

"You're going to be okay," Colin shouts, into the receiver. "I promise."

"No, it's not," Stefan says. He breathes out, hard, and manages to speak before passing out on the cold tile. "It's not. I don't want to die, Colin. I don't want to."

 

It stings a hell of a fucking lot, Colin thinks, it really does. He turns a sharp corner and heads up a one-way street the wrong way, ignoring the car horn behind him.

 

-

 

When he pulls up outside, Stefan has regained consciousness and somehow, miraculously, managed to make it outside, onto the pavement. He's sat on the end of the kerb with his head between his knees, rocking back and forth slightly, a puddle of vomit on the road beneath him. He looks so fucking pale, almost translucent under the streetlamp.

"God," Colin breathes, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look at you."

"I'm a-okay," Stefan smiles weakly up at him. There's sick smeared all over his face, the whites of his eyes are red. "Tippity top. Hundred percent." Then his head bows and he pukes again.

"You're a mess, Stefan," Colin says, swooping down. He hooks an arm around the kid and hoists him up, uses his free hand to grab the car door. "Come on. Let's get you help."

 

Stefan manages to make it into the back seat of Colin's car, stretched out on his side, as grey as the padded seat covers. Colin finds a blanket in the boot and drapes it over him, and Stefan grasps at the white hands on his shoulders, watching his own fingers pass through them as if they were air.

"Colin," Stefan says, whiny.

"I know," Colin breathes, sliding into the front. He's red and worried, sweat is beading across his forehead. "I know, Stefan. I know it's shit. Stay awake for me, yeah?"

Stefan doesn't really hear anything; he cocks his head from one side to the other and back, fixated on how the world turns with his head. The raindrops on the window are running sideways, defying gravity. "I'm a lot of hassle, aren't I?" he says, and then starts laughing.

"No more hassle than usual." The city light makes Colin's features sharp, and his eyes are very bright. His knuckles glow deathly white around the wheel.

Suddenly Stefan is laughing so hard, harder than he ever has, so violent and harsh that his eyes water and his ribs hurt and god, everything is so fucking _hilarious_ that he thinks he might explode. "Yeah, hundred percent," he slurs. "'s okay, 'm way more work than you."

Colin says, "You're not wrong there."

A wave of nausea hits. Stefan feels his body roll and he hurls, all over the back of the passenger seat. "Ugh."

Colin's nose wrinkles but he reaches a hand back and Stefan grabs at it, fingers interlocking, ignorant of the awkward angle. Colin's hand is clammy and shaking but it's not too bad; it's better now Stefan's holding on. Now that he can hold him and make sure he's there.

"You should drive faster," Stefan tells Colin. It comes out as one long sound. "If you can."

"Yeah," Colin says. He looks like a ghost in the rearview mirror: eyes wide, shoulders a stressed-out line. "I can do that."

 

 

-

 

They get to the hospital eventually. Colin breaks several speed limits by very large numbers. Stefan is too out of it to care but Colin's losing it at people in white coats who won't do what he says, whatever that is. He yells at them and holds Stefan's hand very firmly until they get him to a bed with like, a fucking _pump_ in his stomach.

They don't react when Colin tells them what Stefan took; they must be used to it, teenage boys overdosing on random shit. It doesn't matter because they quickly decide that he's going to be okay. He lies there in a little white bed, all full of wires, looking pale and ill and breakable. In the midst of the haze he ends up thinking about his Dad, for some reason—about plastic specs and his pinched-up little face.

 

"I can stay," Colin says. His hand is skating over the soft skin of Stefan's forearm. "If you want."

"It's okay," Stefan smiles tight. His face hurts; he's not sure where, or why, but it does. "I mean, it's not okay, it's a fucking mess—" They both start giggling, just for a second. "—but at least one of us should get back to finishing the game, right?"

"It's two in the morning," Colin says, wryly. "I think we're as shot as each other."

"Wuss," Stefan quips. Like he can say much. "What happened to Colin Rit—ow—Ritman? Roll out of some lad's bed at twelve, light a fag, go into work and then head home and get fucked out your mind."

He scoffs, chin propped up on his hand. "Some lad's bed? That lad was _you._ But you've worn me out now, so."

"You, worn out? Get stuffed." Stefan coughs; his throat feels like acrid fire. "No such thing."

Colin smiles. "I dunno, mate, you're giving me a run for my money."

"Yeah, I know." The guilt hits him like a punch in the stomach. Colin's shoulders are all hunched and his smile is coiled up, contained and Stefan feels like absolute shit; not because of the drugs but because of how broken Colin looks now. Colin Ritman, who smoked like a chimney and made amazing games and didn't give a shit about anything, anything that wasn't his weed or his games or Stefan. "I'm sorry."

Colin rubs a hand over his mouth. "It's not—"

"It _is_ my fault," Stefan says. "I took the damn thing."

"And you wouldn't have known what it was without me," Colin argues. "I'm a bad influence."

Stefan goes soft and says, "You were really good tonight, you know," and then, cautiously, "you're really great, Colin."

Colin looks at the floor; his Adam's apple convulses as he swallows hard. "I'm gonna be better." Then he looks up and smiles at Stefan, eyebrows tilting; he knows he probably looks as shit as Stefan does—tired and hungover and still kind of high. "Not just with work but in general, too."

This is a new Colin; he's changed, Stefan can see it in his eyes. He doesn't like it. "Don't change too much. You don't need to."

The bed creaks as Colin shifts position, scoffing. "You nearly fucking died tonight, Stefan."

Stefan reaches for him. Just a flutter of fingers, but then draws his hand back. Colin watches the movement like his life depends on it; like it's some sort of hallucination whose tangibility he can't quite decipher. "But I didn't. Because of you."

"Because I was just going to let you die on me like that," Colin huffs, but he doesn't feel like laughing.

Stefan goes quiet and says, "I would have."

"Oi," Colin says, straightening up. "Don't talk like that."

"Sorry." Stefan turns his face into the pillow, feels a wave of nausea ripple through him that makes sweat break out on his forehead.

Colin sighs, drops his eyes to his fingers tracing little circles on Stefan's arm, around where the IV drip is plugged in. He feels really cold, even in the hospital gown and bed. "You've not been taking your meds, have you?" His voice is low, drony and monotonous. He already knows the answer.

Stefan doesn't have to reply; he simply looks away, ashamed.

"I just—" he begins, trying to think of an excuse but giving up almost immediately. "I couldn't remember what it was like to be off them."

"So you swapped one dose of pills for another?"

Stefan looks up at Colin through his eyelashes. "Like I said," he says. "I'm sorry."

Something tugs at the corner of Colin's mouth. A smile, maybe. Either that or he's trying not to cry.

Stefan stirs a little underneath Colin's fingers; Colin holds himself very still, waiting, but Stefan just presses his face back into the thin hospital pillow and lets out a breath through his nose. Colin draws his nails gently over Stefan's shoulder, beneath the fabric of the gown and Stefan squirms a little.

"I'm gonna take my meds again," Stefan says, eyes closed. "I mean—I flushed them all so I'll need more. But I'll take them when I get them."

Colin laughs, startled, bright-eyed. "Yes, please do."

"They make me boring," he moans. "It's like I've- I've always got sunglasses on. Everything's so dull." Colin frowns, wonders just how long Stefan's been flushing his pills, but that's a question for another day. "The game was going nowhere."

"Forget about the game," Colin says. "I'll tell Thakur it's over with."

"I'm sorry," Stefan says, again. 

"Don't be," Colin says. "We can make it again. Make it better, too."

Stefan smiles a little, dopey from the drugs. "I know," he says, softer this time. "Trust me, I know." There's a lot happening in his eyes, in his face, in the long lines of his arms.

"You, uh, you should try and talk to me again," Colin begins. They used to talk about everything; drugs, girls, boys, games, their pasts, their futures. "When you're feeling better, you know. I promise I can listen without being stoned. Like, I'm not great at it, but I can try." There are bags under his eyes and dried vomit on the shoulder of his jacket; Stefan's heart swells, looking at him, but it's three in the morning and they're coming off of a very highly-charged emotional experience so don't get it twisted, Stefan.

He could kiss Colin right now, just get up out of this bed and rip out this stupid IV and take Colin's face in his hands and kiss him. Maybe Colin would even kiss back. Maybe they're too sober; maybe they need to be back in Colin's apartment with a bag of weed and a takeaway pizza. But maybe, despite their sobriety, Colin loves him. Colin came for him, even though it didn't have to. It would probably be good. They've always been good, the two of them. Colin-and-Stefan, Stefan-and-Colin; always a pair.

Colin can't exactly handle any of this right now, so he busies himself by pulling up the papery hospital duvet over Stefan's chest. It's gotten a little skewed, tangled up with Stefan's movement.

"Thank you," Stefan says, lifting his head to meet Colin's eyes; less overwhelming, now he's sober and he knows what to expect, but no less  _there_. "For everything."

"See you, Stef," Colin says. He pauses at the door. Stefan looks so fucking tired but it's okay; there's a softness to his features now, like he's been holding himself tight for months and now he isn't anymore. Like maybe he can let himself rest.

Stefan's voice suddenly goes shrill, loud. The heart-rate monitor beside him visibly quickens. "Wait, Colin," he almost-shouts, which makes Colin lurch back into the room as if dragged by a magnet. "Can you—please—please stay. Just until my dad gets here."

Colin stills, and feels the corners of his mouth turning upwards. "Sure thing, Stefan. I can stay."

 

-

 

Colin begs a blanket from a nurse, balls up his jacket and fashions a pretty decent makeshift armchair in the creaky plastic frame beside Stefan's bed. It smells like medicine and blood and death in here, but it's okay. It's nice and quiet and Colin thinks he might just get to sleep, but then Stefan makes a little noise in his sleep and Colin bolts upright, every sense poised like a dog. It takes a second to slow his heart back down to normal.

His phone is on the bedside table—this huge, incongruent brick. It rings.

 

"He lived, then?"  

Johnnie's accent is recognisable even through the shitty phone line. Colin sighs, leans his head back against the wall. "Everyone knows, then?"

"Ben was on the piss and saw you hauling Stefan into your car, said he looked drunk or passed out or something," he says. "Is he good?"

"He's—" Colin's eyes flick to the sleeping hump on the mattress, rising and falling slowly, in time with hooty little snores. "He'll be okay. He took some shit."

Johnnie winces. "Good thing you found him, then."

Colin nods to himself. "Tell me about it."

"So," Johnnie prompts, drawing out the  _o_ , wanting an answer. "Are you two— what's going on?"

"Gimme chance, mate," Colin says. "He's only just woke up."

"You know what I mean," Johnnie says.

A soft exhale. "He deleted Bandersnatch. Six months of work, he just— Thakur's gonna let him go. Even I can't talk him round from that."

"Shit," Johnnie says, his mouth a circle. "Well. Are you going to let him remake it?"

"Not by himself," Colin says.

"You're gonna help him?"

"The past six months have been the best of my life," Colin says, quietly. "Everything about them. Both the game and—and him. We had nights sometimes, it was most nights, really; we just drank and played games together and chased PacMan around his stupid little maze and—" His voice trails off to a whisper. "—things would just—you know."

Johnnie smiles, sympathetically. He takes a second to see if Colin says anything else, but he doesn't, so he says, "You can still have that."

"Yeah," Colin says. "I know. I've just gotta keep an eye on him."

"He loves you, Colin," Johnnie says. "Everybody can see it. Everyone except you, apparently."

Colin takes a second, like he's unravelling everything. One time, he told Stefan that's what he was doing when they were drunk and sweaty and grasping at each other under the covers, Stefan's hands on Colin's arms, nails dragging down, face crumpled. Colin had stopped and breathed and seen Stefan, seen the freckles on his face, the little acne scar by his chin; he looked so beautiful, it had knocked the sense from Colin's head.

"Yeah," Colin says, finally. "I love him, too."

"Okay," Johnnie says, sounding ever so slightly triumphant. "Is the kid passed out? You gotta catch me up on all the shit I've missed between you two. I'll be your agony aunt, give you bad advice."

Almost on cue, Stefan stirs beneath his quilt and cracks open one eye, peers at the figure at the end of the room. 

"He's just waking up, and I think I'll pass on that, John," Colin says, but he knows he's smiling. "But thanks for the offer."

"Look after him, Colin," Johnnie says, before hanging up. The tone is harsh and monotonous, ringing down the line.

Colin places the phone on the shitty plastic chair behind him and stands up, smoothes down his shirt.  _Yeah_ , he thinks, approaching the bed with soft eyes and a smile. His back's gonna scream at him for sleeping there the next morning, but he doesn't care; he's lived through worse.  _I will_.

 

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr](http://turnerkanes.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/bartonholla) ya dicks


End file.
